


154. Sick or sane

by tveckling



Series: Dare to Write challenge [74]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Explosions, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Resident Evil 4, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: One would think saving a president's daughter would make those in power reward you. And maybe they think they are, praising Leon again and again, calling him 'special', 'invaluable', 'the best agent they have'. But being sent on what others would call suicide missions on his own, again and again and again, barely spending more than a day at home before being sent away again, isn't exactly what Leon would call a reward.But it is his job, and he knows how critical it is to stop all the plots he interferes with. It's work that has to be done, and at least he saves people by doing it. Even if it runs him haggard and exhausted, flinching at shadows and sudden movements.
Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Original Character(s)
Series: Dare to Write challenge [74]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/524521
Kudos: 2





	154. Sick or sane

One would think saving a president's daughter would make those in power reward you. And maybe they think they are, praising Leon again and again, calling him 'special', 'invaluable', 'the best agent they have'. But being sent on what others would call suicide missions on his own, again and again and again, barely spending more than a day at home before being sent away again, isn't exactly what Leon would call a reward.

But it is his job, and he knows how critical it is to stop all the plots he interferes with. It's work that has to be done, and at least he saves people by doing it. Even if it runs him haggard and exhausted, flinching at shadows and sudden movements.

It's just what his life is like, and he's had to learn to live with it.

One silver lining is how he's come to appreciate his free time—what little of it he gets to experience before it's pulled away. The weariness is still there, it's always there, but he moves and smiles and chats as though it's not. He has no time to waste, and he doesn't want to be alone. Just this night. Just this once.

The guy a few spots down from Leon isn't subtle at all, barely keeping his eyes off of him long enough to exchange a few words with the bartender. Leon idly drinks from his glass, eyeing the stranger in return. Handsome enough, around Leon's age, dressed nicely without being too flashy. A nice, fit body that he can easily imagine pressed against his own.

Downing the last of his drink Leon gets up from his seat and stretches, taking note of the long stare that gets. From the beginning there weren't any attempts from Leon to pretend he didn't notice the stranger's looking, and he just gives the guy a smirk and a raised eyebrow before he walks towards the door. He's not surprised when the door barely has time to close behind him before it's opened again, and he turns his head with a smile.

Looks like he doesn't have to worry about spending the rest of the night alone any longer.

Making out in a shadowy alley makes him feel like a teenager again, young and carefree, drunk on alcohol and lust and freedom. It'd been his plan to go to either of their apartments, somewhere they would have privacy and a bed, but he didn't complain when his partner pulled him aside. It makes his expectations greater, makes him grin and grind his hips against the other man's, laughing in delight when he hears a breathy moan, happily letting his partner quickly swallow that laughter. It's nice, carefree,  _ simple _ to let himself be pushed against a wall, to pull at a shirt and dig his fingers into the flesh beneath, to feel the tug as his partner's fingers grab hold of his hair as they kiss. It's good. He doesn't need to think, doesn't need to worry, can just let himself  _ be _ , for once.

But reality is insistent, and cruelly uncaring, and Leon's pulled back sharply to all his senses as he hears a loud blast somewhere close. The pleasure is wiped away as though it never existed, and he almost forgets his partner as he whips his head around to try and determine the source— _ the threat _ —of the explosion.

"Wha- don't worry, it's just fireworks. Some stupid kids, probably." His partner talks calmly, surely seeing how spooked Leon is, but all he can think of is his racing pulse, the shadows surrounding him where any sort of monster can hide, how his fingers are twitching for his gun, for his knife, for  _ any _ weapon. The hand on his nape was comforting only a short time ago, but now it's suffocating.

There's another loud boom, followed by several smaller ones, and Leon can only hear shots as he runs, biting his lip as he clutches his wounded arm. That mission took place weeks ago, but the bullet hole aches as though he's still  _ there _ . His breath's quickened, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next.

"I- I need-"

He's aware that he's safe, that he's not on a mission with monsters and mercenaries and cult members alike chasing him. It's clear that the sounds come from fireworks, like his partner said—he can even hear laughter and voices chatting if he focuses. He knows there's no reason to be reacting like this, he  _ knows _ .

But he notices the pained wince as his fingers tighten on his partner's waist, and gritting his teeth Leon pushes the guy away—as gently as he can, trying to remember that  _ this isn't an enemy _ . "I have to go. I'm sorry."

There might be complaints or questions directed at him, but Leon hears none of it as he stalks away, his speed just barely slow enough to still be called walking. The fireworks continue, and he tightens his fists until he can feel them shaking, until he can't avoid the pain of his nails digging into his palm. It centers him, just a little bit, lets him cut through the impressions of dark hallways, musty forests, old castles that surround him. He's not there, in any of those places. He's home, in a city, bright and alive. Safe. No cults here, no B.O.W.s, no insane masterminds. Just fireworks.

But he flinches at the next round of explosions and darts around the nearest corner, his heart beating loudly in his ears. Cover, he has to find cover.

There's no need, he's safe, he's paranoid and trapped in a panic attack of sorts, a part of his mind knows, but it's drowned out by the adrenaline and fear and desperate need to  _ hide _ .

He ends up in another alley, one with a dead end, pressing into the wall behind a large dumpster. It will be harder to escape if need be, but at least he only has to watch one direction. It's safe, as safe a spot that he could find. His body's screaming to take out his hidden knife, to become armed, to not be defenseless—but there's still a part of him, small but stubborn, that knows there's no need. His hands shake with the effort to keep them still, but somehow he manages. He's already dangerous enough unarmed, and he doesn't want to risk having a weapon in his hands if someone should come near.

The booms from the explosions reach his ears again, and he flinches, pressing himself harder into the wall, wanting to bang his head against the concrete. Can't the goddamn partying be over already? His wounds—all in various stages of healing, some far more recent than others, all a painful reminder of not being fast enough, not being  _ good _ enough—smart with every explosion, and he bends his head over his knees with a whimper. It's all he can do to keep himself still, to stop himself from going out and finding his enemies and  _ ending this _ , and he shakes with the effort.

Too bad about the company. A soft laughter escapes his lips at the thought, sounding suspiciously wet even to his own ears. He was so certain he'd be able to spend the night in someone's arms, feeling warm and sated and comfortable. Instead he's cowering next to a dumpster, his senses going haywire because of some stupid  _ fireworks _ .

_ He's so alone. _

The shadows creep around him, seeming to move whenever he doesn't focus on them. He can feel his knife pressing against his skin, a tangible piece of evidence that he's not helpless, should the need arise. It makes him feel better, even as adrenaline races through his veins.

It's unmistakable, this situation; he's not made for a civilian life. If he ever was, that part of his life is long over. All he can do is pray that they'll send him on another mission again soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [tumblr](https://tveckling.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/tveckling)~


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